


For This Night and All The Nights to Come

by Lokiscribe



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Amputation, Angst, Betrayal, Blood, Dehumanization, Episode: s05e10 Mother's Mercy, Gen, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Episode: s05e10 Mother's Mercy, Season/Series 05, Shame, Spoilers, Whump, deprivation, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokiscribe/pseuds/Lokiscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The good news is that Jon doesn't die.<br/>The bad news is that's just about the only good news.</p>
<p>Otherwise known as the fic where Jon is kept alive after the mutiny, but he's literally speechless. And I do mean literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For This Night and All The Nights to Come

**Author's Note:**

> (This note contains a spoiler for people who haven't watched the season 5 finale.)
> 
> Tried to post this last night, but something got messed up, so doing it again now...
> 
> This is an idea I've had for quite a while now and finally got down to writing. I think it was a way for me to undo Jon's death but still insert plenty of angst. I really enjoyed working on it.
> 
> This is not a nice fic. Lots of awful stuff happens to Jon. Be forewarned. Let me know if there are any other tags I should add.

The swift shift of emotions hit him like ten of Ygritte’s arrows. In an instant, adrenaline turned to shock. Hope to despair. Momentary optimism to immediate disbelief. 

Jon Snow. 998th Commander of the Night’s Watch. 

He’d not seen his Uncle Benjen since his first days with The Watch. The man had long been thought dead. That he might now be alive was most welcome news, both in itself and in contrast to the devastating news that the Red Priestess brought with her. He’d been nothing short of shocked to realize that Stannis had fallen, but it seemed that now he could set that heaviness aside, at least for a moment. 

Jon kept a swift pace behind Olly, eager to speak with the wildling who had spoken of Benjen. Alliser Thorne met them at the bottom of the stairs. Stunned as he was at the unexpected news, Jon barely heard the words Ser Alliser spoke. He made a brief comment in reply, but his main focus was not directed at the Master-at-Arms, but forward, toward the band of his Brothers that presumably surrounded the wildling in question. 

Pushing through the crowd, Jon prepared to immediately barrage the informant with questions. When he broke through the wall of men, however, he stopped short. 

_Traitor._

The Lord Commander immediately felt a pit of cold dread form in his gut. _Traitor?_

The word both hurt and confused him simultaneously, only to dig its claws in further when he realized the full meaning behind it. The men hadn’t been happy at his actions regarding the wildlings, he knew, but Jon never imagined they would think of him in such a way… _Traitor…_ To think that moments ago, he’d believed his Uncle Benjen to be alive… So quickly had his excitement turned to shock!

Despite the numbness he felt, Jon managed to turn around, only to find himself seized in the strong grips of Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck. He struggled against them, but they held fast, forcing him to his knees before Alliser Thorne. The rest of the men drew in closer to form a tight circle around their prisoner, their shadows flickering ominously in the torch light. 

“You’ve betrayed the Watch, _Lord Snow_ ,” Ser Alliser said mockingly. He stepped forward until he towered over Jon, forcing the Lord Commander to crane his neck backward to meet his gaze. 

“Some of the men feel you ought to die for it,” he continued, eyeing Jon with unambiguous contempt. “I’m not opposed to the idea myself.”

Jon growled and lunged forward, trying to break free of Marsh and Yarwyck, but they only wrenched him backward once more, dislocating his shoulder and slamming his knees painfully back down onto the hard-packed snow and ice. Alliser was unmoved. 

“How does it feel to be powerless, Jon Snow? It _burns_ , doesn’t it? That’s what we all felt as we watched you endanger the entire realm, again and again… You turned your back on your Brothers. On Westeros!” 

“Everything I did, I did for the realm!” Jon shouted angrily. “I’ve told all of you before what’s at st - unnh!” Jon didn’t know whence came the blow to his kidneys, but it was enough to silence his protests. As he gasped for air, Alliser Thorne spoke again. 

“Yes, you had a lot to say, Jon Snow! Your wretched mouth had an excuse for every blasted order your bastard brain devised!”

Gritting his teeth from the pain in his lower back, Jon snarled and clenched his fists. The only thing keeping him from physically resisting was his dislocated shoulder, which flared up at even the slightest movement. 

“This is mutiny,” he panted. “ _You’re_ all the traitors! I am your Lord Commander!” 

Several barking laughs sounded throughout the crowd, and Bowen Marsh snorted in Jon’s ear. Ser Alliser smirked. “Haven’t you realized, Lord Snow? This is the end of your tenure as _Lord Commander_.” 

He’d known, deep inside him, from the moment he first saw the word _traitor_ carved into the wood, but Jon Snow’s heart still skipped a beat as reality confronted him. 

“Do you intend to kill me?” he asked, staring fearlessly at Ser Alliser before glancing at the other men around them. “Or do you lack the courage?” 

The Master-at-Arms drew a knife from his belt, the torchlight sending an intense orange glare reflecting off of it. Jon’s gaze didn’t waver as Alliser pointed the blade at his throat.  
“Rest assured that many men here would celebrate your death. And had we decided on such a fate for you, you would not still be breathing.” He applied enough pressure to create a dark red drop of blood on Jon’s neck, gleaming just above his Adam’s apple. Jon had barely enough time to wonder what fate the Brothers of the Night’s Watch _did_ intend for him before Alliser stepped away, withdrawing the knife but not re-sheathing it. 

“We’ve come to an agreement that you can be of use to us,” he stated. “After all, there are plenty of tasks around Castle Black worthy of a bastard.” Again, snickers could be heard running through the crowd, and Jon narrowed his eyes, unsure of their meaning. 

“If you think I’ll submit quietly to you, you’re mad!” Jon threatened. He did not know what the Brothers planned for him, but whatever it was, he would not surrender without a fight. 

Alliser Thorne’s expression, already serious, grew more severe still. “Oh, I doubt any among us would expect you to submit _quietly_. That’s why it’s been decided you won’t have a choice.” Turning away from Jon for the first time since Marsh and Yarwyck forced him to his knees, Ser Alliser went to the nearest torch and held his blade to the flame. Jon’s heart leapt as he watched the metal turn bright orange from the heat. For the first time, he felt a real flicker of fear. 

“Won’t have a choice?” 

No one answered him. 

Satisfied that the blade was hot enough, Ser Alliser removed it from the flame and walked back over to Jon. 

“Open your mouth,” he ordered firmly. 

Finally realizing what they intended, Jon lost all regard for his injured shoulder and began to struggle fiercely, unwilling to accept his predicament. 

“You can’t do this!” he snarled, breathing heavily from the exertion. 

Thorne looked to Marsh and Yorwyck. “Help him comply.” 

Jon pressed his lips together as tightly as he could, but was ultimately unable to prevent the two men from prying his mouth open. Despite the frigid night air, sweat formed on his brow, a single bead dripping from his forehead as the glowing blade drew closer. He tried to protest, but couldn’t articulate words with his mouth held open. Even so, he yelled and squirmed, partly from fury but also from desperation. He glared with pure hatred at Ser Alliser as his tongue was forced from his mouth. Alliser merely stared back at him, unfaltering in his intentions. “Remember, Jon Snow… you brought this on yourself.” 

Then he sliced, and Jon screamed. 

~~~~~

He regained consciousness to find himself on the ground, cheek pressing into the snow. His mouth burned with a strange emptiness, but also felt much too full. He went to swallow and immediately gagged, spitting up what he’d automatically assumed to be saliva but was in fact blood. He saw it now, staining the ground beneath him, more and more of it leaking from the wound. He’d never been one to feel light-headed at the sight of blood, yet the sight of his own now made him feel quite ill. But though he retched violently and repeatedly, nothing came of it; it had been hours since he’d eaten. 

He became aware of a pair of boots in front of his face, and with great effort, he looked up into the face of Alliser Thorne. 

_What more do you want from me_ , he tried to say, but realized in horror that we was incapable of forming words. His tongue truly was gone. He was now mute. 

Ser Alliser gave a grim smile. “I much prefer this version of you, Jon Snow… not such a righteous bastard now, are you? Perhaps in a few months when you’ve grown tired of wallowing in horse and human shit, you’ll regret your treachery against the realm. But your regret will be meaningless, because this is your life now, Jon Snow. You are the lowest of the low. You’ll do whatever we ask of you, and you won’t be able to argue against it.”

He used his sleeve to wipe the blood from his knife, pausing momentarily to look at the blade.

“If you disobey us or try to refuse our orders,” Alliser said, holding out the weapon in front of Jon’s face, “I’m sure we can take a few more body parts from you… Remember that before you make a foolish attempt at rebellion. You’ll never sabotage The Watch again, but you can still _serve_.” That last word, Thorne spoke mockingly, voice dripping with derision. 

Jon closed his eyes, pain making it hard for him to focus. He heard the rustling of clothing and opened his eyes to see that Ser Alliser had knelt beside him. The Master-at-Arms grabbed Jon’s hair and pulled him up off the ground, closer to his own mouth. Jon cried out, but Alliser paid him no mind. 

“You should consider yourself lucky, Jon Snow, that the _true_ Brothers of the Night’s Watch respect their oaths. ‘I shall take no wife, father no children…’ The words mean to refer to women, naturally, but most of us still feel it would be… unbecoming… for a Watcher on the Wall to make use of your body. So be grateful that you’ll remain unviolated… _boy_. It’s more than you deserve.” 

Jon could only spit blood in reply, choking as a stream of it ran down his throat. As he gasped in agony, he heard a voice say, “Let him rest a while before putting him to work.” 

There was a small degree of resistance to this idea, indicated by the grumbles of a few, but the order apparently stood, for he felt himself lifted up by his arms. His injured shoulder was wrenched further out of its socket, sending inhuman noises tumbling from his bleeding mouth. He was conscious of being dragged some distance across the frozen ground, then the smell of animals mixed with the stench of blood that already filled his nostrils, and he felt himself hurled to the ground. 

He heard the voices receding and opened his eyes, coming to two realizations: one, he had been thrown into Castle Black’s stables, as if he were no more than a beast; and two, his head was lying in a pile of stinking manure. Repulsed, Jon whimpered, trying to lift his head out of the disgusting mess, but darkness finally swept over him, pulling him under. His head fell back onto the same fetid spot it had just left, and he lost consciousness. 

~~~~~

Thus began the new, miserable life of Jon Snow. It was a brand of shame such as he’d never experienced, nor ever imagined he would. What devastated him even more than the menial labor, even more than the humiliating nature of his fall, was the loss of his voice. It was this that made him feel truly powerless. Had he been allowed to keep his tongue, shoveling manure and emptying chamber pots (Ser Alliser hadn’t been lying about ‘horse and human shit’) would not have broken his spirit. He would have been able to tolerate the taunts of the men, to walk tall and maintain a semblance of dignity. But in his voiceless state, he was unable to defend himself, unable to fight back, unable to seek support from any who might offer him sympathy. He could do naught but perform the degrading tasks demanded of him, always under the threat of physical violence if he did not obey. Even when he did comply, he still took his fair share of beatings, whether for alleged ‘incompetence’ or ‘insolence’ or some other trumped up charge. And Jon had to endure it, for there was nothing he could do to speak up. He endured in silence, again and again, shame turning his face just as deep a shade of red as the dark blue hue of the bruises that littered his body at all times. 

He was constantly hungry, to a degree he’d never experienced in his life. Growing up privileged at Winterfell, he’d never wanted for anything, and since coming to Castle Black, he’d never truly gone hungry, even when resources were low. But now he was at the bottom of the barrel, no longer equal in rank to the other men of The Watch. He was little more than a slave, a hated servant whom they only fed begrudgingly in order to keep him alive. He was not permitted to eat with the men, and much of the time had to resort to pleading looks in order to communicate his need. He often faced a blow or two in response, but on occasion it would get him a piece of bread, and to his shame, Jon found it was always worth it. When he was not thinking of his humiliation or his loss, he unfailingly thought of his hunger. It was a constant plague on his existence. 

And then there was the cold. Many of the fine, warm furs that had kept him warm as Lord Commander had been stripped from him, leaving him with insufficient cover from the harsh winter. He had clothing enough to keep him from freezing to death, but shivering had become his constant companion. He could not remember the last time he’d felt warm. Unfortunately, the lapse in memory did not make his situation any less intolerable.

Some time after his downfall, the weather took a turn for the worse, the cold growing colder still, chilling every man at Castle Black to the bone. But none more so than Jon Snow. More than one of his teeth had chipped from chattering so harshly, and it was becoming difficult for him to work due to the uncontrollable shaking of his limbs. He held onto a sliver of pride for as long as he could, not wanting to appear any more pathetic than he knew he already did, but finally he could take the suffering no longer. One day, when Ser Alliser was on a break from training new recruits, Jon shuffled up to him, head bowed in supplication. Lifting his eyes but not his chin, Jon looked into the man’s pitiless gaze, wrapping his arms around himself to mime coldness. Then he quickly lowered his eyes, not wanting to be accused of arrogance. _Please_ , he begged internally. _Please…_

Alliser Thorne stared at him coldly, allowing Jon to shift uncomfortably before him for several moments before responding. “You wish for warmer clothing,” he stated flatly. 

Jon nodded, keeping his eyes lowered and his back hunched. He knew it was crucial that he behave humbly if he wanted his request to be granted. 

“What makes you think you deserve such a privilege, boy?” 

Trembling, Jon stole a glance upward, trying to communicate his desperation. “Mmmm!” he begged, the unforgiving winds causing his hair to obscure his vision. 

Ser Alliser snorted, turning his head aside to spit upon the frozen ground. “Pitiful. Such weakness… Well, I suppose I might be persuaded to find something for you… if you’ll do me a little favor.” 

Jon nodded quickly, not wanting to seem unwilling. No matter what Alliser asked of him, he sorely needed the additional protection. There was no choice but to acquiesce. 

“Come.” 

Alliser, who had since been elected the 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, led him to his study, the study that had once belonged to Jon. He didn’t allow himself to look around, nor think about what might be requested of him. He merely stood in front of Ser Alliser, waiting to be told what to do. 

“Now, boy,” Thorne said, pushing Jon to his knees. “As a man of the Watch, I may not be able to engage in intercourse, but I don’t see why I can’t enjoy your mouth… just this once, anyway.” 

Jon’s head shot up, bewildered. 

Alliser raised his eyebrows. “Is that too far beneath you, Snow? Is it a price you’re unwilling to pay? If you want something from me, you’re going to suck my cock, boy. You may not have a tongue, but the gods know a warm mouth is more than I’ve felt since I swore my oath. If I find your efforts pleasing enough, I _may_ consider giving you something warmer to wear.”

Jon trembled involuntarily. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to do this at all, but he didn’t see what choice he had. He couldn’t go on living as he had been. This was truly what he had been reduced to. 

“Do we have a deal?”

Shakily, Jon nodded, reaching for waistband of Ser Alliser’s trousers with quivering hands. 

~~~~~

A short while later, Jon returned to his work, with cum staining his face but a new cloak wrapped about his shoulders. The garment was nothing special or even particularly thick, but it was an improvement, and one that Jon was truly grateful for. The lengths to which he’d gone to obtain it shamed him to no end, but he couldn’t think about it. He didn’t let himself. When night came, the taste of semen somehow still lingered on his lips (how this was possible without a tongue escaped him), but the warmth of the new garment he wore quickly drew him into a blissful sleep that allowed him to forget for a short while the many degradations of his existence. 

~~~~~

Very little separated one day from another. It was always the same. Cold, hunger, monotony, abuse, shame, sorrow. So rarely did he experience positive emotion that he all but forgot what it was to be happy. His childhood at Winterfell and even his term as Lord Commander seemed incredibly distant, part of an ever-fading otherworld that grew more and more hazy with the passage of time. 

Sometimes, there would be a reminder, though. Some remnant of the past would remind him of his former life; that there had once been more than that which he had now. Ordinarily it was little things: smells, sounds, perhaps the sight of Olly walking about the grounds. He was usually able to shut down those memories, to will them away for the sake of his dwindling sanity. 

One day, though, there was a reminder much bigger than any other; horrifyingly real and inescapable, one that was impossible to ignore. 

Red hair. He’d known her immediately from her red hair. She was much taller than he remembered and clearly no longer a child, but still in possession of the same womanly grace she’d held even at the young age he’d last seen her. 

He did not allow her to see him. The moment he saw her, he fled to the stables. He could not bear for her to see him, nor to face the painful reality that she represented - that of his former life. Neither did he allow himself to wonder how she had come to be at the Wall. Surely she had meant to seek him out, only to find disappointment upon her arrival. He wondered what the men had told her. Probably that he was dead. 

He might as well have been. 

So far had he fallen; so much had he lost. Confronted with the presence of his sister, he could not forget this, and it made him want to die. 

Beneath his misery, Jon had the sensibility to observe that he was not the only one to have suffered a fall. Jon had seen the old man hovering beside _her_ when she’d first arrived, but it was not until word spread throughout Castle Black that he learned the wretch’s identity. Even then he could hardly believe it. 

He could see the scars on the man’s skin, the missing fingers, the brittle hair and the shattered teeth. It did not require much intelligence to infer that this man had seen a world of torture. And if he truly were the murderer he was rumored to be, then perhaps he’d deserved it. But the ordeal he’d been through had left the former Ironborn unrecognizable. He was no longer attractive, no longer confident, no longer clothed in fine attire such as he’d once fancied. He no longer carried himself like a Lord, or even like a dignified human being. He was a shadow of his former self, a shadow of what he’d once been. 

Not unlike Jon. 

As much as he wished for death, dying was not an option afforded him. His eternal torment was to live, to endure an existence of disgrace and humiliation. To feel hunger’s sharp knife twisting around inside him. To spend each night in a stable, surrounded by shit in the nighttime just as he was during the day. To see Brothers who had once been loyal to him take orders from the man who’d sliced the tongue from Jon’s mouth. To go through each day knowing that he’d never again form another word, never again be able to negotiate, to reason. To kiss Ygritte even if she were still alive. 

He had nothing, and no one. He had no escape, no future, no hope. This was his reality, and he had no choice but to live it. _For this night and all the nights to come..._

He could only pray that gods might soon take mercy and allow the sweet embrace of death to overtake him.

**Author's Note:**

> The appearance of Sansa and Theon at the end was inspired by a request that I write a story about Sansa reuniting with Jon. That person wanted a happy reunion, I think, but that's not really my style, so... I did this instead. Sort of the same thing?
> 
> If you've made it this far, thanks for reading. Hope you liked the story.


End file.
